


if great times make great men

by eudaimon



Category: Justified
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-19
Updated: 2010-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-13 19:20:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/140780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eudaimon/pseuds/eudaimon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the world ended, they could have run but that just isn't their style.  The U.S Marshal's of Lexington, Kentucky decide to ride out the coming zombie apocalypse side by side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if great times make great men

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pollyrepeat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pollyrepeat/gifts).



> I think this bears some explaining: in my snooping around, I found that you liked zombies and apocalypses and, since those are some of my favourite things, I honestly couldn't resist. Not the most festive fic in the world, but I hope that you enjoy it! Merry Christmas <3

_No place is safe, only **safer**_ \- _World War Z: An Oral History_ by Max Brooks.

*

Sometimes, he still dreams about Afghanistan. They're always slow, boring, featureless dreams; he sits still and keeps watch in the dark. There are rainstorms, tea-glasses. He lies behind his rifle and waits. Makes up stories.

Somebody does or does not die.

If he sleeps for long enough, he gets to the end of the dream: he dismantles his rifle, packs it away carefully and then picks it up and walks away. He remembers the colours of that place keenly but they're different when he dreams.

He always wakes from a dream like that feeling lonely. He gets up and brushes his teeth. He puts on his left boot first. He puts on his Kevlar on the way through the door.

It's not the end of the world, but he can see it from here.

*

One day, it's going to be somebody that he recognises; they all know that. They don't talk about familiar names. He sits in the courthouse window, rifle cradled across his knees and he closes his eyes and he could be in Afghanistan again. He imagines the sandy soil giving under the heels of his boots, a cool breeze cutting across his chest and through short hair. He breathes slow and shallow, feels his heart beating heavy in his chest. Somewhere, someone's humming Johnny Cash.

He lifts his rifle. He doesn't open his eyes until it's settled against his shoulder.

I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die.  
One, two, three, he takes his shot.

He can't remember the last time that he missed.  
Arlo Givens wasn't lying, when he said Tim was the shit.

“How many's that?” asks Raylan, tipping back the brim of his hat. He's got his boots up on the desk; it doesn't escape Tim's notice that it's not even his desk. Tim shrugs like he's not been keeping count, even though there's a mental tally that he never loses track of.

“Twelve this morning,” he says.  
Raylan pushes out a low whistle.

Business is booming in Kentucky.

It's like this: if they're going to live through the end of the fucking world, they're going to carry on doing their jobs. Tim didn't actually believe they could, but then Raylan had walked the length of the office with his hands on his hips and Rachel had looked up and smiled. Art had already been pouring bourbon into paper cups. They drew up a rota. They made do.

And Tim can wait. He's known that about himself for a long time.  
If somebody's got his back, he can wait forever, hoo-rah.

“The question,” says Raylan, pushing up out of his chair and walking in the direction of the water-cooler, reaching out and snagging two paper cups, “is what the fuck are we doing for lunch?”

“If you ask me to go out for chicken, I'm going to put a bullet in your chest,” says Tim, easily, leaning back against the wall. “And don't think I wouldn't, Marshal.”

Today, it's easy.

That's not true every day. Raylan Givens is not always an easy man to know, especially not now they're all working on sleep-deprivation and frayed tempers. Once, Art sat Tim down and explained to him that the thing about Raylan Givens is that he makes things harder than they've got to be and, more often than not, he drags people down with him. And you've got to fight to stay afloat. You've got to like him despite him.

And Tim gets that, he does, but, sometimes, Tim feels like he's tired of fighting and then he reminds himself what it felt like sitting there in Afghanistan, making up stories, and he finds the will again.

And they go on.  
But it's not always easy.

He trains his sight on a guy in the distance. For a moment, he can't tell what he is; he's walking straight, his head held reasonably high. He hears footsteps behind him, too light to be Raylan's. Rachel comes to stand at his shoulder, her head tilted on one side. He sees her in his peripheral vision. Her side-arm is in her hand.

“So tell me about him,” she says. He knows that the stories amuse her; he's never managed to explain to her how bone-deep they can go. He's never told her about the times when it suddenly became really hard to pull the trigger because you didn't know where the line came any more. It never stopped him from taking his shot, but he knows that there were guys that did happen to. It's not the reason that he walked away, but it came close.

Still, he's never told her that and so it's turned into a game that they play: she asks, and he tells her stories.

“He's an office worker,” he says, shifting his grip on his rifle slightly. “And sometimes, we get coffee in the same place. I always take mine the same way but he always changes his order, like he can't make up his mind.”

“What'd he get yesterday?”

Tim huffs a laugh through his nose.

“Pumpkin Spice latte.”

He's decided: the guy's a zombie. There's a stumble on every second or third step. Tim bends his head, centring himself, finding his balance. He breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth. Rachel's hand rests on the back of his neck.

He takes his shot.  
Thirteen.

*

They take it in turns to sleep. They've dragged mattresses in here and, honestly, it's pretty cozy with the lights turned down low. With the Rangers, Tim got used to sleeping anywhere. Frankly, it's just a relief not to be lying down in the shadow of a wheel arch. He pulls a spare pillow over his head and falls into a dead sleep almost instantly. He keeps his rifle close to his hand.

He stirs when somebody lies down beside him. Since all this started, he's opened his eyes and woken up next to all three of them. Rachel smells the best; Art snores the loudest. He's pretty sure that Raylan doesn't really sleep. Every time Tim opens his eyes, it feels like Raylan's already looking at him.

This time, it's Rachel. She puts her side-arm under the pillow and lies down in front of him and, after a beat, Tim reaches out and wraps one arm around her, pulling her closer still.

There's no sex in it.  
It's just about reminding each other that they've got each other's backs and, as long as that's true, they can ride this out.

He half dozes and listens to Art and Raylan talking. It reminds him of lying in bed when he was a kid and listening to his Mom and Dad and, later, lying in a tent in the desert and half-hearing guys coming and going.

“Lemme ask you something, Raylan,” says Art, and then he pauses like he's lifting a glass to his lips, drinking off enough bourbon to wet his mouth. “You ever think about Ava?”

There's a pause. Tim lies there with his chin against Rachel's shoulder and listens as Raylan Givens hesitates.

“Every day,” he says.  
“And Winona?”

Tim imagines that Raylan nods.

“Her too.”

More and more, Raylan's been talking about taking a car and driving down to Harlan to see what's going on down there. Tim's got a boyfriend in New York, an analyst with some fancy government agency, and he can understand the sentiment, but he also knows that his team needs him, so he stays put.

But Raylan's been talking about it more and more and, more and more, Tim's been thinking that, maybe he'll go with him.

If only to put his mind at rest.  
If only so that they can all move on.

Once, drunk, Raylan said _you know, I never expected to make it outta Harlan alive_. Tim had made a crack about the dangers of country music.

But maybe someone goes to make sure Raylan does make it out of Harlan County. But first he needs to sleep. Raylan and Art have moved on to talking about the old days when they taught together back before everything went to shit. Tim closes his eyes and presses his nose against Rachel's shoulder. In an hour or two, he'll get up and pick up his rifle. He'll lie behind it and wait. The thirteen from this morning will count for nothing.

He'll wipe the slate clean.  
He'll start again.

And, together, team-shaped and within squinting distance of the end of the world, they'll survive.


End file.
